SANCTUM AND HEALING (9/?)
anonymous
November 26 2011, 22:07:37 UTC
An uneven smile found its way across Anders’s face. There was something about the dwarf’s straightforward nature-coupled with a lack of distinct smells-that made him feel more at ease. Maybe it was the way he refused to balk, even when he knew he was caught like a halla in Hawke’s predatory stare. Anders had used the same tactic when he’d first met the Warden Commander; it was best to judge a man by the ease of the company he kept.
If they didn’t look starved or beaten or terrified-just friendly, weather-worn, fondly weary-then chances were the leader in question wasn’t a downright evil person, even if he was insane.
‘Right,’ Hawke said. He rubbed a weary hand over his beard. Anders listened to the soft scrape of short hairs where they scuffed against his palm. ‘Well, as you can see, you’re interrupting a private meeting. Funny how you always manage that.’
‘Me and my bad timing,’ Varric agreed, with a shake of his square head. ‘And here I thought you wanted me to tell you first: the elf’s back. He took a little detour through Wildervale to shake off Choirboy’s royal train, but it only threw him a couple of days off schedule.’
Hawke’s eyes flicked toward Anders. Anders looked back at Hawke, as though the secret to parsing Varric’s curious pronouncement could be found in the sunken lines above his brow or the hard set of his mouth. It was code; it had to be. The elf’s back and Choirboy’s royal train; the hawk swoops at midnight and the anxious apostate aches ardently-there had to be some way to translate it, but Anders wasn’t as good at deciphering those things as he was at making them up.
‘Shit.’ Hawke was the first to break their staring contest. He pressed his thumb into the delicate skin around his eyes, hard enough to make Anders wince. Then, all at once, he was moving, plucking his cloak off the hobbled chair and fastening the battered tin clasp around his throat. ‘Weeks of silence, Varric. Weeks of waiting in the Vimmark Mountains with nothing to show for it but a bad back and Keran’s peeling sunburn, and now everything’s got to happen at once. I don’t suppose you feel like explaining why that is?’
Anders didn’t have to look to feel Varric’s eyes on him. Maybe there was something on his face, or an embarrassing rip in his robes that revealed his smalls. Anders patted his skirts, but found nothing that might serve as an explanation for why he suddenly felt like the prize goose at a Feastday supper, all trussed up and gleaming in the torchlight.
If they kept staring, he was going to develop a complex.
Finally, Varric cleared his throat and looked away; Anders wondered what secrets his face held, a new code even harder to crack, a grin so much more deceptive than any tight-jawed frown.
‘When it rains, it pours, Hawke,’ Varric said, reaching up to pat him on the back. ‘Or as they say in Orzammar: when it rains, you’d better move your ass, because the entire thaig’s about to collapse.’
‘Cheerful.’ Hawke reached out as if to take his staff, but it was Anders he touched instead, strong hand clasping his forearm. ‘You-you come with me.’
‘If I was a demon,’ Anders added, feeling the beginnings of a pout coming on, ‘I don’t think I’d take very kindly to being dragged about like a sack of potatoes.’
‘Lucky for us you were so clear, then,’ Hawke said. The daylight hit his face like the sun setting against an old cliff-side, illuminating his sharp features; they looked like they’d been chiseled from the same hard rock that surrounded them, a Fereldan face if ever Anders saw one. ‘You’re not a demon. But I’m not letting you out of my sight, either.’
If they didn’t look starved or beaten or terrified-just friendly, weather-worn, fondly weary-then chances were the leader in question wasn’t a downright evil person, even if he was insane.
‘Right,’ Hawke said. He rubbed a weary hand over his beard. Anders listened to the soft scrape of short hairs where they scuffed against his palm. ‘Well, as you can see, you’re interrupting a private meeting. Funny how you always manage that.’
‘Me and my bad timing,’ Varric agreed, with a shake of his square head. ‘And here I thought you wanted me to tell you first: the elf’s back. He took a little detour through Wildervale to shake off Choirboy’s royal train, but it only threw him a couple of days off schedule.’
Hawke’s eyes flicked toward Anders. Anders looked back at Hawke, as though the secret to parsing Varric’s curious pronouncement could be found in the sunken lines above his brow or the hard set of his mouth. It was code; it had to be. The elf’s back and Choirboy’s royal train; the hawk swoops at midnight and the anxious apostate aches ardently-there had to be some way to translate it, but Anders wasn’t as good at deciphering those things as he was at making them up.
‘Shit.’ Hawke was the first to break their staring contest. He pressed his thumb into the delicate skin around his eyes, hard enough to make Anders wince. Then, all at once, he was moving, plucking his cloak off the hobbled chair and fastening the battered tin clasp around his throat. ‘Weeks of silence, Varric. Weeks of waiting in the Vimmark Mountains with nothing to show for it but a bad back and Keran’s peeling sunburn, and now everything’s got to happen at once. I don’t suppose you feel like explaining why that is?’
Anders didn’t have to look to feel Varric’s eyes on him. Maybe there was something on his face, or an embarrassing rip in his robes that revealed his smalls. Anders patted his skirts, but found nothing that might serve as an explanation for why he suddenly felt like the prize goose at a Feastday supper, all trussed up and gleaming in the torchlight.
If they kept staring, he was going to develop a complex.
Finally, Varric cleared his throat and looked away; Anders wondered what secrets his face held, a new code even harder to crack, a grin so much more deceptive than any tight-jawed frown.
‘When it rains, it pours, Hawke,’ Varric said, reaching up to pat him on the back. ‘Or as they say in Orzammar: when it rains, you’d better move your ass, because the entire thaig’s about to collapse.’
‘Cheerful.’ Hawke reached out as if to take his staff, but it was Anders he touched instead, strong hand clasping his forearm. ‘You-you come with me.’
‘If I was a demon,’ Anders added, feeling the beginnings of a pout coming on, ‘I don’t think I’d take very kindly to being dragged about like a sack of potatoes.’
‘Lucky for us you were so clear, then,’ Hawke said. The daylight hit his face like the sun setting against an old cliff-side, illuminating his sharp features; they looked like they’d been chiseled from the same hard rock that surrounded them, a Fereldan face if ever Anders saw one. ‘You’re not a demon. But I’m not letting you out of my sight, either.’
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